


When The Sun Rose Again

by AlElizabeth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 17:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15200288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlElizabeth/pseuds/AlElizabeth
Summary: Teen!Chester. An unprovoked attack shakes a young Sam Winchester to his core, but when Dean and John find the person responsible, they take justice into their own hands.





	1. Chapter 1

Sam sighed when he glanced out the window and saw it was pouring rain outside. Class ended in five minutes and he had to walk back to the motel room on his own. His father and brother were both working a case and neither of them could pick him up.

The thirteen-year old didn't have far to go but that wasn't the point. He'd be drenched by the time he got to the motel since he didn't have an umbrella.

Sam grimaced to himself as his teacher told the class all about the book report they had to write on Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island over the weekend.

The homework wasn't what was bothering Sam. No, he loved school and knew he would do well on the report- if he didn't have to leave town before Monday- what he was thinking about was the last time he'd had to walk around in the rain without the proper attire.

He had just been a kid, nine or ten, and John had taken both him and Dean out into the middle of nowhere with no supplies, to try and teach them how to survive on their own. They had only been out in the elements for one night, but in the middle of a torrential downpour. Dean had given Sam his coat, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and still the younger boy had gotten sick, spiking a high fever, vomiting, hallucinating and the very next morning, when John showed up to collect the boys, he'd ended up having to drive them to the hospital instead of back to the motel.

Sam didn't remember much of the three days he spent in the hospital, but it had apparently scared John so badly that he didn't try anything like that again. If he did, he stayed with his sons just in case one of them got into trouble.

"Sam?"

Looking up at the sound of his name, Sam saw that the rest of the class was standing up, grabbing their things and heading for the door as though the building was on fire.

Blushing slightly, the boy picked up his books and hurried out behind his classmates.

Pushing through the crowd to get to his locker, Sam kept his head down and packed his bag, listening to the kids around him make plans for the weekend.

One of the boys in his class, Andrew, was having a birthday party and had invited everyone. Everyone but Sam it seemed. Not that Sam minded. He barely knew the boy and he was sure his Dad wouldn't allow him to go anyway.

Swinging his backpack over his shoulder, Sam pulled up the hood of his jacket and made his way through the thinning crowd to the set of double doors that led to freedom.

Kids were screaming, holding books or umbrellas over their heads as they ran to their parents waiting in warm, dry cars or buses. Automatically, Sam lifted his head and scanned the parking lot for the familiar form of his father's 1967 Chevy Impala.

It wasn't there. Tugging his hood down and hitching his backpack up, Sam managed to not get splashed as he crossed the parking lot and headed down the sidewalk in the direction of the motel.

W

Sam had barely walked a block but was soaked to the bone. His jacket was soggy, clinging to his t-shirt underneath, his jeans dripping chilly water into his shoes.

Why couldn't his brother just take the car and come around and pick him up? What was the big deal? It would have only taken ten, maybe fifteen minutes and then Dean could have gone back to helping their Dad.

"Hey, kid!"

Sam paused and glanced at the car from the corner of his eye. It was blue, nondescript, and clearly well taken care of, no rust. The driver, a man, had the window rolled down and had his elbow out.

"Do you need a ride somewhere?"

Sam started walking a bit faster. He didn't mean to be rude but he just wanted to get home and get into some dry clothes.

"I can give you a ride if you like."

Sam shook his head, drops of rain flying from his hood.

"C'mon," the man cajoled, "I have a kid around your age and I wouldn't want her walking home in the pouring rain."

Sam continued to keep his gaze straight ahead. The blue car was keeping pace with him as the driver spoke.

"Please," the man wheedled, "I wouldn't be doing the right thing to leave you outside like this."

The motel wasn't far, a couple of blocks at the most. Sam could walk it, easy. But the fact was, he didn't really want to.

Stopping, he turned to look at the man. He was middle-aged, maybe a few years younger than his Dad, with mouse-brown hair that was balding at the top of his skull, making a kind of Friar's ring. He had glasses, a moustache, and was wearing a green sweater. Sam thought he looked a bit like Ned Flanders from The Simpsons.

"I'll take you home," the man told Sam.

The boy nodded and walked forward. The man smiled and opened the passenger's side door for him. Sam climbed into the seat, dropping his soggy backpack at his feet and closed the door.

They remained idling for a moment as Sam pulled on his seatbelt. The car was nice and warm and smelt strongly of pine trees from the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

"Where are you headed?" the man asked and began driving again.

"The Drowsy Dog Motel," Sam replied, "Do you know where that is?"

"I do," the man replied.

"Do you want music?" he asked and Sam shook his head.

"What's your name?"

"Jim Hawkins," Sam answered automatically, the name of the protagonist in Treasure Island the first name to pop into his head.

"Nice to meet you, Jim," the man held out the hand closest to Sam to shake, "I'm Randy."

Sam shook his hand, "Thanks for the ride, sir."

Randy smiled, "Think nothing of it. It's the least I could do."

Sam leaned back as the man drove.

"Hey, you missed the turn," Sam pointed out as they blew straight by the street they were meant to go down.

"I know a shortcut," Randy reminded him.

"Okay," Sam replied, slightly uneasy. He slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed his pocketknife he always kept with him.

Sam watched silently, his heart beginning to beat faster, as they left the residential area and were presently surrounded by strip malls that looked more and more decrepit the longer they drove.

"It's the Drowsy Dog Motel," Sam spoke suddenly, "On Kipling Avenue."

"I know," Randy replied calmly, "This is a shortcut."

"You can let me out here," Sam told him, "I'll walk the rest of the way."

"I can't do that," the man told him, "It's still raining. You'd get soaked."

"It's okay," Sam assured Randy, "I don't mind. Honest."

With his free hand, Sam reached for the handle on the door, wondering how much it would hurt if he were to leap from the car now. He didn't get a chance to find out, because while he was distracted by his indecision, the side of Randy's hand slammed into his throat like some sort of Karate chop.

Startled by the blow, coughing and choking, Sam released his grip on the door handle and is pocketknife, bringing both hands to his neck.

It took him a moment to realize that Randy had already stopped the car in the deserted parking lot of an abandoned strip mall and was unbuckling his seat belt.

Sam reached out when Randy climbed over the middle console and over to his side of the car, facing him.

"What-" The thirteen-year old gasped and shoved at the man's chest before one hand clapped over his mouth.

"Shhhh," Randy whispered, "It's okay, it's okay."

Sam, terrified, tried to pry the man's hand away from his mouth but he could barely breathe.

With his free hand, Randy unzipped his khaki pants and bent his knees so that they were pressed against Sam's legs, pinning them to the seat.

No, no, no, Sam thought desperately; get off, get off, get off!

"Shhh," Randy murmured again, and ran a hand through Sam's hair, pushing his hood back.

Sam felt nausea bubble up in his stomach and feared he would throw up. Randy's free hand was back at his pants again, fiddling with his underwear to pull them down.

My knife! Sam thought, feeling relief and shoved his hands in his pockets.

Randy, noticing that Sam was no longer struggling to pull his hand away from his mouth, frowned and grabbed the boy's arm at the elbow, pulling it from his pocket, making him drop the knife into the space between the seat and the middle console and jammed Sam's arm forcibly behind his back, pinning it there with his own weight.

"Don't do this," Randy told him, "Don't do this to me, okay?"

Sam lashed out with his free hand, the one closest to the car's door and scratched at the man's face, digging his nails into his cheek since he didn't have the space to punch.

Randy reared back and snatched Sam's failing hand and once again shoved it behind his back. The man glared at him, beads of blood dripping down his face.

Sam closed his eyes, his chest heaving in fear- he was well and truly trapped now, at this man's mercy- when Randy leaned forward and whispered in his ear, the smell of onions and garlic making Sam's stomach turn again.

"I can make this good for both of us," Randy told him, "Just relax. You'll like it. I promise."

No, please, Sam begged silently; don't do this.

With one hand, Randy tugged Sam's jeans and boxers down to his knees that were still pinned to the seat. Then, the weight pressing down on his legs was lifted and the hand covering his mouth moved away.

"HELP!" Sam screamed as loudly as he could, his throat searing with pain from the force of the cry.

"Shut up!" Randy hissed and shoved a dirty handkerchief he'd had in his pocket into the boy's mouth so he could use both hands.

Sam, continued to try and scream, the words muffled by the cloth, as Randy grabbed his thighs and lifted him. Releasing one hand from Sam's leg, the man used the other to guide himself.

Sam, hyperventilating with panic, cried out again but this time in pain, tears spilling down his cheeks at the violation.

Randy, once he was inside, placed both hands on the back of the seat, on either side of Sam's head. The stench of sweat mixed with the smell of garlic and onions in the car, almost unbearable, making Sam dry heave into the handkerchief in his mouth.

Sam didn't know how long it lasted. It was possibly only minutes but it felt like hours. Pain coursing through him, every cell in his body protesting the abuse he could do nothing to prevent.

Then, Randy was pulling out, leaning back. He sighed and smiled at Sam. Reaching out, he ran a hand through the boy's hair and down his face.

"You'll have to get out here," he told Sam, as though he cared, "I'm sorry but I can't take you to the motel. You understand."

He pulled the handkerchief from Sam's mouth, brought it to his own nose and sniffed it before shoving it back into the pocket of his khakis. Then, he unlocked the car doors.

Sam didn't move. Couldn't move.

"Here," Randy said, "Let me do that."

He pressed the red button to release Sam's seat belt and the moment it retracted, the boy shoved the door open and fell out of the car, his feet tangled in his backpack straps.

Randy paused only to reach out and pull the door shut before speeding off, spraying Sam with muddy water.

On his hands and knees, boxers and jeans around his ankles, the thirteen-year old threw up, shaking and crying and then threw up again.

W

Sam didn't know how long he stayed like that, crouched in the parking lot among the cigarette butts and discarded candy wrappers but eventually he must have pulled himself together, tugged his boxers and jeans back up, slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked back to the motel room. The Impala wasn't in the parking space when he got back, which was perfectly fine with him. The last thing he wanted to do was answer any questions.

Sam unlocked the door, stepped inside, and undressed as he went, a trail of clothes following him into the bathroom. He turned on the tap in the bathtub, turning it to its highest setting and stood in the shower, head down, crying, watching blood and muddy water swirl down the drain.

Although the hot water could wash away the physical signs of what had happened in that blue car, it could rinse away the gnawing ache or the feelings that clung to Sam, even when the spray turned cold and he was forced to turn get out of the shower.

Ignoring looking in the mirror, Sam stepped into the main room, found his duffel bag and pulled on a clean pair of boxer shorts, jogging pants and an oversized Metallica t-shirt that had once belonged to Dean. Without turning on any lights, Sam climbed into bed and drew the covers all the way over himself, curling into the fetal position beneath them.

W

"C'mon Sam," Dean's voice called through the barrier of sleep and the boy woke reluctantly.

"It's time to go," Dean told him, "Dad's waiting for us in the car."

Sam opened his eyes.

"It's nine in the morning," his brother offered.

Sam hadn't even heard his father and brother come home the night before.

"Hey," Dean's face was suddenly inches from his own and the boy drew back in surprise, "You feeling okay? You're kind of pale."

Before Sam could answer, Dean was pressing his hand to his forehead.

"You don't feel warm," the seventeen-year old muttered.

"You didn't get into Dad's Jim Beam again, did you?" he asked with a smirk.

For a few minutes it all seemed that the events of the previous day had been some awful nightmare but then the mention of Jim Beam reminded Sam of telling Randy his name was Jim Hawkins and it all came crashing down on him.

"Sam?" Dean asked, concerned, "Sammy?"

"I'm… I'm fine," he croaked, feeling his eyes burn, wanting to start crying again.

"Tell Dad I'll be there in a minute."

"You sure?" Dean asked and straightened up.

Sam nodded.

Dean turned, grabbed his brother's duffel and headed out the door. Sam didn't care that he wasn't given the chance to change out of his sleep clothes. He just wanted to go back to sleep and forget about everything again.

Slowly, his body aching with fresh pain that hadn't been present the day before, Sam pulled his shoes on and stepped outside. It was a warm, sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. It was as if the day before hadn't happened at all.

Sam climbed into the backseat of the Impala and lay down right away, pressing his cheek against the comforting cool leather of the Chevy's seats and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam dozed as they drove, not really sleeping- he could hear his dad and brother talking in the front seats of the car- but falling in and out of a semi-conscious state. He allowed the motion of the Impala's wheels over the asphalt and the drone of the music lull him into a false sense of security.

W

Sam opened his eyes when, hours after they had started driving, John stopped the car and turned the ignition off.

"Restroom break," John announced as he opened the door, "Five minutes."

Sitting up, Sam saw that they were parked in front of a Dunk N' Donuts.

"C'mon Sam," Dean griped from outside the car, leaning in through the open window, "Dad said five minutes."

"You go on ahead," Sam muttered, "I'll be right there."

Dean rolled his eyes and walked into the store.

Sam remained sitting where he was for another minute. He didn't really want to get up but he did have to use the washroom and he knew his Dad wouldn't like it if he were forced to stop again when he'd given them this chance to go.

A blue car pulled up beside the Impala and Sam's heart skipped a beat, thinking it was Randy's car, but an elderly woman exited the vehicle instead.

Sighing, Sam climbed gingerly from the car and made his way into the store. He saw Dean in a line up for food, already having finished using the facilities.

Sam ignored his brother and headed to the Men's Room. It was warm and damp inside, smelling strongly of piss and urinal cakes. He walked right past the open urinals and went into a stall. Facing the toilet, he lifted the seat and pulled down his boxers and jogging pants, gasping in shock at the blue and purple bruises on his thighs where Randy's fingers had dug into their tender flesh.

The boy swayed dangerously to one side before reaching out, grabbed the toilet seat and steadied himself. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and opened them again. The bruises were still there, seeming to scream out the damage that had been done to the boy.

Without using the toilet, Sam pulled up his boxers and pants and exited the restroom. A quick scan of the store told him that his brother and father were already waiting for him.

Quickly, Sam left the store and climbed into the backseat.

"You're three minutes over," John told him, glancing at his watch, "That means three minutes off your next bathroom break."

Sam barely heard his father. He lay down across the backseat, drawing his knees up to his chest as he did so.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean turned to face him, "I got you a donut."

A white paper bag dropped onto the seat in front of his face.

"Since you didn't get breakfast," Dean finished.

I slept through breakfast? Sam wondered, not sure if Dean meant that he and their Dad had gone out to eat before they left the motel room or if they had picked something up while they drove and, unable to wake Sam, decided to let him be.

"Thanks," Sam muttered but didn't touch the bag and instead closed his eyes again.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean's voice asked from the front seat.

"Fine," Sam muttered even though he was anything but.

"All right," Dean replied and Sam heard the volume of the music on the stereo increase as his brother fiddled with the dial.

Metallica clashed from the speakers and Sam allowed himself to focus on nothing but the music.

W

The second time they stopped so John could fill up the Impala with gas, Dean jumped out of the front passenger's seat and climbed into the back.

"Budge over," he muttered to his brother as he slid onto the warm leather seat.

Dean didn't say anything, didn't ask him any questions (the dreaded 'are you all right?) and instead settled back and watched their Dad through the window.

Sam remained sitting up for a moment, torn between not wanting anyone near him and craving comfort. After a few minutes, when John had gotten behind the wheel again and started off, Sam leaned against Dean and closed his eyes. Dean put an arm around his younger brother's shoulders and told their Dad to turn up the stereo so he could sing along to the Iron Maiden song playing on the radio.

SPN

John didn't know what had gotten into his youngest son. First, Sam had slept in so long Dean had to wake him up just as they were about to leave, then, he had lollygagged when they had stopped to use the restroom. Sam, who could be shy around strangers but chatty around family, had barely spoken to either him or Dean while they drove, instead laying in the backseat.

He's just having a bad day, John thought; we all do occasionally.

He couldn't help but think of how, every year, as early November drew close, he tended to ignore calls for help on his phone and instead drink himself into a stupor in a futile attempt to drown out the memories of his wife's death.

But this wasn't the same. Sam was just being a teenager. He was already thirteen and next year would be starting high school.

John just hoped that this new lazy attitude wouldn't end up as a permanent thing; if it started to look that way, he'd put a stop to it.

W

Tired of driving for the time being and hungry, the Winchester patriarch pulled into the parking lot of a small roadside diner.

"Out, Sam," John growled as his son lagged exiting the Impala.

Stepping onto the wooden porch, the hunter held the screen door open for his sons to enter the restaurant before him and then followed them into the old diner; the scent of grease, cigarette smoke, and beer thick in the air.

Dean took the lead and made his way to the back of the diner, away from the majority of the crowd and sat down in a booth scarred with burn marks and rips repaired with duct tape. John sat beside Dean, giving Sam the opposite side of the booth to himself.

A grey-haired waitress with huge bags beneath her eyes appeared at their table, menus in one and pot of coffee in the other. John and Dean pushed their mugs towards her and she filled them up without a word. She handed out the menus and wandered towards another table.

John shoved the ceramic ashtray sitting on the table to the far end and opened his menu.

"I know what I want," Dean announced, having found a bacon double cheeseburger on the menu, and took a sip of his coffee.

Peering over the top of his menu, John saw that Sam was staring out the window beside him, not even looking at the menu.

"Pick something to eat," John told his youngest son.

"I'm not really hungry," the thirteen-year old muttered.

John leaned forward, "You'll eat or I'll give you a knuckle sandwich."

Although John never would lay a hand on his sons, the threat worked and Sam opened his menu, finally deciding on a Club sandwich and French fries when the waitress came back.

John had two more cups of coffee along with his country fried steak, watching as Sam picked at his fries and tore his sandwich apart to eat the meat and cheese inside.

Shaking his head in exasperation, John decided not to worry about Sam's attitude if and when it became a problem. To keep on about it would only end up creating an argument and John really wasn't in the mood to fight with his son.

Once he and Dean were finished their meals and Sam had ceased picking at his, John paid for their lunch and headed back to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you're enjoying this story!  
> This is a birthday story for my friend, mandancie.   
> This story title comes from a song by Alice In Chains.


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